


I Don't Know You

by sunshinesamizayn



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Comfort Objects, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Forgiveness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kayfabe Compliant, POV Second Person, gender neutral reader, hiac aftermath, hiac spoilers, like holy shit so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 07:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12316923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinesamizayn/pseuds/sunshinesamizayn
Summary: After the events of Hell In A Cell you're forced to see your boyfriend, Sami Zayn, in a very different light, including questioning whether the man you fell in love with even exists anymore.





	I Don't Know You

It felt like a punch to the stomach, like your intestines had tied themselves into knots. Everything was wrong. This was wrong. This couldn't be happening. There was no way Sami just helped Kevin win. You hear the sound of Shane crashing through the table, the thump as his body hit the ground, his motionlessness. Then there’s Sami’s strange, absent expression, then the crowd’s energy mutating into horror.  
  
The image of him pulling the referee to the floor flashes in your mind. Aggression looked so foreign on him. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

You had so often found yourself forgetting he was a wrestler. You forgot his job was to hurt people more than they could hurt him. You forgot that every person in the arena who cheered him wanted that too.  
  
You had never questioned Sami’s morals. Never. No relationship was perfect, of course, but you'd never had to doubt whether he was a _good_ person. That was what made you fall in love with him in the first place. He was trustworthy and genuine and kind. He was-

Past tense.

He was gone.

Your beloved Sami was gone.

The screen was still showing replays. Everyone backstage knew him well enough to be horrified. His friends, both of your friends, shared the same silence as you. You left before they regained their speech and asked you anything. These weren’t conversations you wanted to have. That’d make it more real than you were even able to accept.  
  
You see him across the hall, familiar but not. For a moment, you watch him like he's a stranger. He's a head of curls and a face of worry, tugging at his jacket sleeve, hands disappearing inside.

You thought of all the sweet words you called him. Sweet boy. Baby boy. Angel. Darling. Sweetheart. Honey. They were all sweet soft words and they had always suited him. He had never objected to them, responding to any of them like it was his name.

He scans the landscape and spots you. Then he flinches, as if someone had struck him. Then he runs towards you.

“We have to get out of here” he says, words slurring like they’re sticky. “I don't want anyone seeing me.”

You nod, and make your way as quickly as possible to the car park.

People were still in the arena, processing what had happened. The car park is quiet, the only sound coming from the angry hum within the stadium.

You reach your car and grab the handle. Then you feel his hand on your wrist. You almost flinch.

“Can you drive?” He whispers, looking past you slightly. “I can't like this.”

You look back at him and that fugue state stare.

“Sure.”

You make your way to the other side of the car before sitting behind the steering wheel and clicking the door closed as quietly as you opened it.

“Ready?”

He nods and hands you the keys from his bag. They fall out of his hand and in between your seats. He doesn’t even register it.

You want to ask everything and nothing, but opt for the latter. For the first time in all of the three years you've known each other you complete the drive in silence.

There's a sense of relief when you get into the apartment, but it fades when you remember you share a bed. Sami is frugal and the hotel room is small and that'd never been a problem in the past. You mutter something about going to the bathroom and wait there, hoping he’ll be in bed when you come back in. You can’t bear to see his body when he’s like this. You don’t want to look at this gorgeous, familiar body when you’re like this. You don’t want to think about the man you have made endless love to doing such a horrible thing.

There’s still the sense that this, somehow, isn’t him. It was like ‘The Body Snatchers’, where an alien produced exact duplicates of people in a town. You hadn’t read the book but you’d watched the film. You flinch when you remember you watched it together.

You can smell the buttery popcorn in a bowl between you. You remember how he ate most of it like always, how he shoved whole handfuls in his mouth at a time when it got tense. You teased him gently afterwards about it and he feigned ignorance, wearing that big, infectious grin that told you ‘yeah, maybe I did that, but I’m not ashamed.’

You look in through the door frame at the double bed crammed into a tiny room. You look back at slack jacked, distant Sami laying there still and unblinking.

Is that shame?

You tear off your clothes and pull on your t shirt and pyjamas shorts, suddenly uncomfortable with how much of your skin was showing and you slide under the covers as fast as you can. You check your phone to give you something to do. 2 missed calls from Finn. 4 from Bayley. 5 from Becky. There's even voicemails.

You clear your notifications. You'll deal with everything in the morning. The repercussions didn't bare thinking about. Not now at least.

Your heart is hammering like it’s going to burst out of its cage, and it has been since he did it. It hasn’t stopped. Your phone lights up with a colourful Instagram feed. For every wrestlers account that you followed you followed about 10 non-wrestling accounts. You scroll and try to ease your heart and all those hard, fast, horrid feelings and let yourself zone out.

A soft weight finds itself against your chest, a soft lock of hair touching the bare skin of your collarbones.  
  
"Hey sweet boy," you murmur absent mindedly.  
  
Regret sets in the second you realised it had tumbled out of your mouth. It was a precious phrase, a pair of a sweet words. Was it sappy? Sure. Did it suit him? Absolutely. Or it had. It felt dirty now, like you'd accidentally said it to a stranger.  
  
To your horror he nuzzles into you, and for a second you stop breathing.  
  
_You're not my sweet boy._  
  
_Where is my sweet boy? Where did you put him? Who am I left with?_  
  
His eyes widen like he’d seen a ghost. That's when you realise your body had frozen up. His eyes flicker up and you stare back. Neither of you say a word. You know he knows.

He pulls away from you, laying beside you instead. Not one inch of your bodies touch. He lays flat on his back, eyes up at the ceiling. He reaches across to the bedside cabinet and extends a hand. The lamp is off. You try to see if he’s closed his eyes but he’s just a shape next to you, pressure on the mattress and a tug on the sheets.

It’s not like being able to see him would give any insight into him anyway.

Time doesn't seem to pass. The room is dark and the curtains closed and the night sky feels like it's falling more than turning. The blankets feel heavy, the room too small, and somehow he seems to take up more room than usual. The room is oddly quiet. You can't even hear him breathing.  
  
Your own heart hammers louder than anything and you're stricken with a sudden awareness of your own body; of where your skin touches the sheets, of the space between your toes and the position of each finger. You can feel the outline of your brain, the way it's trapped in your skull and you begin to slowly realise you're claustrophobic in your own body.

You don't know how much time passes. You don't want to close your eyes, so you stare at the ceiling. The room is filled with an inky blackness, but it feels more viscous than just empty space. It's like the room is a water tank and someone tipped in a vat of oil. Your mouth is dry and you quietly get out of bed to go to the bathroom.

You don't turn on the light, instead fumbling in the dark for a disposable cup which you hold under the tap. The rush of water is the first sound you've heard in what feels like hours. It's almost entrancing. Cold water flows over the top of the cup and runs over your hand. You don't turn off the tap. The iciness reminds you you're real. Against all of this, you're real. You can feel things, you can do things, you can change things. What you're going to do or change you don't know, but reminds you the options are there.

There's a sudden commotion, a door thrown open, the sound of frenzy. Sami runs from your room to the hotel door. He's whimpering your name, over and over.

The bathroom light isn't on. He doesn't turn it on in the hallway. He doesn't notice you.

“Oh god, oh fuck, please don't have left me. Please don't go.”

There's a clatter as he grabs something. Your cup slips from your hand and into the sink basin.

You desperately run your hands alongside the wall trying to find the light switch. You feel the raised edge of the panel. You don't hesitate. The room fills with light.

The contents of his bag is strewn over the floor and he sits among it, now looking back at you. He’s here in a way he wasn’t before. His eyes focus, and for the first time since it happened you feel like he sees you.

His face crumples like paper and he starts to sob.

You step gingerly over the mess of things and bend down, getting your hands under his armpits as you try to heave him up. But he's heavy and won't give so you sit alongside him instead.

You've seen Sami cry before but not like this. His face is screwed up and ugly and he more howls than sobs. He's saying something but it's completely unintelligible.

“Breathe, breathe,” you remind him.

You place a hand on either one of his shoulders. You can't touch his skin, his pyjamas are in the way. His soft, comfort pyjamas. You didn’t even realise he was wearing them. They're blue and thick and fluffy and only worn in times he's upset. You'd both used comfort objects as a way of communicating when you weren't feeling good. He had pyjamas and you had a yellow cotton bracelet he bought when he was in Malaysia for a show. If either of you wore one the other would never ask what was wrong unless they were told. It was a request to please be gentle, to keep in mind the wearer wasn’t feeling good. It worked wonders.

Sami had always been one for talking out his problems (or so you had thought, at least.) You'd always resolved to pamper him with hot drinks and comfort food - takeaways if you were on the road, something home cooked if you were back at the apartment. Then there was cuddles and kisses and pet names and dancing to his favourite ska records. There was old movies and popcorn and kisses.

You remember one day a few months ago at the apartment when he was in the same comfort pyjamas, eyes sore from having a little cry, but sat on the kitchen counter as you stirred cake mixture. He swung his legs like a child, occasionally leaning over to dip his finger into the mixture much to your faux-disapproval, anticipating a light hearted scolding that never came.

You remember feeding him cake when it was done, laughing at the crumbs on his beard and proud of the smile on his face.

You can't even remember what he was sad about in the first place now. Maybe you should.

“I should have helped you,” you find yourself saying.

Sami looks back at you, still trembling with sobs and gasping breaths. He shakes his head.

“Not your fault. Just me.” He looks down like eye contact hurts him. “I don't know who I am anymore.”

His whole body seems to crumple this time. His head hangs and his spine curves and he stares down at his own lap. He brings his hands to his face, sinking his fingers into his hair and pulling.

Then you notice the bald patches.

“No, no, honey,” you say before stopping. You can’t say it’s not his fault. You don't know why he did it. You can't justify any of this because you don't have a clue what's in his head.

Then you realise you said a sweet word, and it didn't feel wrong.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” you tell him gently.

You squeeze his shoulders now, sinking your hands into the slight squish of his body. He brings his hands down, placing them purposefully on each respective thigh. He looks back, eyes flickering side to side as he searches you.

“I'm gonna be honest with you, baby. I don't know why you did what you did. I don't know what's going on in your head. I can't read your mind. But I want you to know that I love you. I'm not going to leave you when you're like this. Everything's changing and I know you need something to hold onto. I'm not gonna abandon you, my darling.”

His eyes fill with tears again, but they don't feel as despairing as the first.

You smooth his hair down, pressing the soft curls down to hide what you saw. You'll talk about that later. Now isn't the time.

“You're still my good boy,” you say gently.

He throws himself into your arms. He's all grabby hands at your back as he tries to cling and hold. It's only now that you realise just how much he's shaking.  

You bring your hands behind him and scoop him onto your lap. One leg rests either side on your hips and he sits comfortably on your thighs. He's heavy - 210 pounds of man - but the weight is like the water. It reminds you that you're here. That you feel things, do things, change things. The world may be full of people doing things you don't understand but you're a person too, and you have as much power to change it as anyone else does.

You hold him properly now, no slight touches or hands gingerly pressed to shoulders. You hold him like there's a bubble between the both of you that you're trying to pop. You push his head to the crook of your neck and rub his back. You tell him it's okay to cry, that you're going to work everything out together.

And you mean it.

You know it's not your responsibility to change him. You don't want to change him. You think about when you met him when he was still in NXT, when he was skinny and smiley and wore sweater vests. You think back to who you were back then. Until what happened at Hell In A Cell you wouldn't have ever considered him being worse as a person, for all that he had changed. Less starry eyed, sure, but not worse. Never worse.

It's been almost two years since he joined the main roster. He still doesn’t have a title to show for it. You remember when he got moved to Smackdown, you remember his beaming grin and talk of finally belonging, of it being ‘my time’ and ‘my turn’. Then you remember how it faded. He'd worn his comfort pyjamas more often. You'd told him kind, gentle words. You'd baked him cakes and ordered takeaways and almost exhausted your film collection. All sweet, comforting things. All short term. All things that ended the second he stepped foot into an arena, waiting in the back for instructions that never came.

“I was tired of you being overlooked too,” you say quietly as you rub circles between his shoulder blades.

He freezes up and pulls back slightly to look you in the eyes. You wipe the tear tracks away.

“Thank you.”


End file.
